


ANT's Tumblr fics

by ANTchan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Oblivious Stiles, Polyamory, Romantic Comedy, Thanksgiving, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 19:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan
Summary: A collection of short 1k-2k fics from my tumblr! Tags will be added as we go. Pairings are listed in the title of each chapter.





	1. Sterek: Goodnight, goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it was time that I finally added these fics to ao3! 
> 
>  
> 
> [On tumblr](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/post/138140823055/goodnight-goodnight)

Every shitty thing that’s happened to them over the years has made Stiles a light sleeper. It makes cohabitating… difficult at first. He doesn’t get enough sleep as it is most nights, let alone when he’s jolting awake every few hours at the slightest rustle or snore.

His first year at college _sucked_ , basically. His second year was better, after he and Scott pulled every string in the book to get the same room. At least when he snapped awake, he knew it was _Scott_ and he was _safe._

Derek isn’t different in that regard. It just takes some getting used to. They’ve been dating for months but they only recently been trying this whole “night/weekend at my boyfriend’s” thing. They haven’t been pushing each other away or anything, but they’ve just… it’s the slowest either of them have ever taken a relationship before. They’ve both been through so much shit both in and out of relationships - secrets, life-threatening circumstances, betrayals, not to mention Derek’s more than _spectacular_  trust and consent issues and they just–

They’re easing into it, okay?

So when Stiles shudders awake without warning in the middle of the night, he isn’t surprised. He catalogs his surroundings quickly, taking in the stillness of the loft and the moonlight pouring in through the windows overhead. Derek is beside him, comfortably close, and still with sleep. So what–

Except Derek isn’t asleep.

Stiles watches as his boyfriend’s breathing hitches, a tremor racking his body. The way his shoulders shake is unmistakable, as is the painful clench in his jaw and the twist of his mouth. Stiles’ pulse skyrockets even before he catches the glint of moisture clinging to Derek’s eyelashes.

“ _Derek_ ,” he rasps, hating how the werewolf flinches from him. The movement dislodges tears, one after the other, and Derek ashamedly wipes them away. Stiles isn’t sure which part of that hurts him more. “Are you… what hap– what can I–” What’s he supposed to _say to this?_ What is he supposed to do?

“Sorry,” Derek mumbles, the words coming thick off his tongue, scratchy. “I’m okay.”

“No, no, don’t– don’t _apologize_. You don’t have to apologize.” His mind is whirring, sorting through possible threats even though there isn’t one. Did Derek have a nightmare? Did Stiles somehow manage to sleep through one? Does he want to be comforted? Stiles’ hands flutter in the air above them, unsure if his boyfriend will want the contact. But Derek gives him an answer, sliding forward into Stiles’ embrace with fluid ease. He presses his face into Stiles’ shoulder, hot and damp against his skin. His body shudders again in a sob that doesn’t quite make it free.

“I woke you up,” Derek says miserably.

Stiles squeezes him. “I’d rather you woke me up than leave you alone. Do you… want to talk… about it?”

The man is silent for a few moments, before heaving a shaky sigh. “No, it’s… stupid. I just– I miss them.”

Oh.

Yeah. Yeah, _this_ Stiles gets. This isn’t Derek waking up sobbing in the grips of some terrible nightmare. This is the slow tears of something that doesn’t have rhyme or reason. The trigger so infinitesimal that you don’t see it coming until it’s too late. It can be anything - a thought, a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, a scent. It’s that thing that never goes away, that they only get better at handling it. It’s why Stiles has to leave the room sometimes at the smell of fresh baked bread or risk tearing up right there.

“It’s okay,” he assures him. Derek sniffs, makes a noise that’s definitely shame. “It’s okay. I get it. I miss her.” And that’s when Derek finally relaxes against him and lets the last of the tears soak into Stiles’ shirt. Stiles holds him through it, stroking hands down his spine and through the baby hairs at his nape.

Eventually Derek pulls himself up from the bed. Stiles listens to him pad into the bathroom to blow his nose and splash water onto his face. When he comes back, he all but slumps onto the bed beside him again. They lie there facing each other, suddenly unsure of what to say. “Thank you,” Derek whispers after a few moments.

“You’re welcome” sounds hollow and inappropriate. So does “nothing of it.”

“I’ll be here,” he promises instead. He slides forward to brush a kiss to Derek’s forehead, fingers stroking at the tear tracks and the last bit of moisture clinging to his lashes. With a sigh, Derek settles back down, the tension leaking out of his with each slightly shaky breath.

“I know you will.”

\-----------------------------------------

**END.**


	2. McHaleinski: McHaleinski week day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A post s5 Derek returns AU.
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/post/146090460780/this-was-meant-for-mchaleinski-week-day-3)

Derek drives all night.

Braeden makes only one attempt at persuading him not to. They handled it, she tells him. They won. They fixed everything - they fixed each other. But Derek can’t leave it alone. His Pack has been hurt, broken and sewn back together again.

 _Scott and Stiles_  broke. And Derek wasn’t there for them.

They never called him, never asked him for help. He’d had to wait until Braeden returned to hear the news of everything that had happened in Beacon HIlls since he’d left. The knowledge sits heavy in his chest the whole way back.

Did they not consider him Pack anymore? Were they angry at him for leaving? Did they even want him to come back at all?

It’s early morning when he finally reaches Beacon Hills, anxious and heartsick all over again. He drives straight to the high school, where students would be filing in for classes at this hour. Derek isn’t sure what he hopes for - to catch Scott and Stiles before they enter the school? To just _see_  them from a distance? 

It’s all pointless questioning anyway, because they’re nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t see Scott’s bike or Stiles’ monstrosity of a Jeep anywhere. Derek has to remind himself to keep calm, to not go on an _actual rampage_  through town to find them. Just because they’re not at school yet doesn’t mean they’re not safe. There’s people he can ask, other places Derek can look for them. 

Two of those people are watching him from the sidewalk with wide eyes and open mouths. And, in Liam’s case, a fiery glare.

“What are _you_  doing here?” the boy spits as he approaches. The boy next to him, who Derek vaguely recognizes but has never been introduced to, nudges him sharply in reproach.

Derek doesn’t have the time to entertain Liam’s anger. “Where are Scott and Stiles?”

“Not here.”

 _Really?_  Derek shoots him the most deadpan, murderous glare he can muster. Which, if the way they both flinch is any indication, is pretty effective.

“They’re taking a couple days off,” the other boy stammers. “Uh, they’re camping out in this… this pretty scary loft across town– um, okay. I’m– I’m Mason, by the way!” Derek doesn’t wait around for him to finish his sentence. He’ll think about  proper introductions when his mind isn’t consumed with Scott and Stiles. He knows where they are, as if there’s _anywhere else_ that matches that description.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

They’re staying at his loft. His mind keeps repeating it over and over as he takes the stairs three at a time the whole way up. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything; he tells his heart to stop racing at the idea of them taking refuge here. And yet…

The loft doesn’t smell like dust and rust and blood anymore. No, the moment Derek slides the door open, he’s hit with the scent of sweat, sex, misery, and affection. There’s nothing but the sound of steady breathing and gentle, comforting beat of two hearts, almost perfectly in sync. It’s poetic, and oddly fitting, especially when Derek gets a good look at them.

Scott and Stiles are fast asleep on the bed ( _his bed_ ), tangled up in each other’s arms and their clothes strewn around the bed. The sheet’s barely covering them at this point. But the morning light filtering through the dusty windows, tracing patterns over their bare skin and it…

Derek’s never seen anything look more _right_ in all his life - for them to be like this. To be _here_ like this. It fills him with a sense of possession so vivid that Derek is _ashamed_. He’s ashamed to consider them _his_ for even a second, to delude himself into thinking this thing he’s felt between them, simmering gently in his belly over two years, could be reciprocated. But they’re here and they’re beautiful and broken, his boys. No, not _boys_ anymore. Not in age or in spirit, not with everything they’ve gone through. And they look like they belong here in his bed. And maybe, if Derek lets himself hope, they feel that too, if they’re here.

They’re going to need food, is the next though that enters his head. When was the last time they ate? The loft is empty of anything resembling a meal. This, Derek can handle. It only takes a minute to order a pizza. He even remembers Scott’s heinous liking for pineapples on half of it. He throws in a couple two liters and three different appetizers because he’s seen what the two of them can do to a single pizza. (It’s not pretty.)

He’s perfectly ready to wait outside after that, to give them some privacy until they’re awake and decent. But Derek ends up checking the generator and the water heater instead. He’s not going to have them stay here and go without electricity or running water. It’s common decency and _not,_ he assures himself, fulfilling the needy part of him that wants to _provide._

It’s not. _It’s not._

But it _is_ what gets him caught. Attempting to sneak around a sleeping ‘wolf, let alone an Alpha, is a fool’s task. So it’s inevitable when Scott jolts awake as Derek is leaning down to pick up their discarded clothes. Derek finds himself staring directly into red eyes as Scott levers himself into a sitting position, and then Stiles’ own honey-brown eyes as he follows suit seconds later. They’re both breathing heavy, bleary-eyed and panicked. And then gaze at him in silent shock, as if they aren’t sure what they’re looking at.

“ _Derek?_ ” Scott croaks. His voice wavers around the word, like he doesn’t dare believe it.

Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles silently glances down at his hands, fingers tapping as he counts them. His heart _aches_  for both of them.

“It’s me,” he says softly. “I’m here.” He’s standing at their bedside while they’re _naked_  after what was obviously a… a romantic, or at least _cathartic_  night for them both. Derek subtly averts his eyes, and absolutely does _not_ flush. “I was just checking– I’ll let you both– hey!” 

He’s tugged across the bed, barely managing to catch himself before he goes face-first into the sheets. Trying to push himself up only gets him manhandled until he’s pressed between them, feeling the warmth of their skin through his clothes, enfolded in their scents. “What are you–” his question ends on a gasp. Their hands squirm under his shirt, gentle fingers tracing his skin reverently. 

“You’re here,” Stiles chants, face mashed against Derek’s shirt collar. “You’re here, _you’re here.”_

“You’re real,” Scott sighs into his back. Their hands clutch at him, as if they can’t bear to be touching anything other than his skin. Derek’s going to smell like them for days if they keep that up. It’s borderline _claiming_  and at this point, they both know too much for them not to _know that._

“Yeah,” he manages. “I’m here. It’s… It’s okay.”

“It is now,” Scott agrees earnestly, and nuzzles between his shoulder blades, completely unconcerned with how Derek’s heart jolts.

“Stay,” Stiles demands, but it’s as close to pleading as Derek has ever heard. His hands squeeze, pressing Derek further into the bed. “ _Stay.”_

“I… I’ll have to go get the food. I ordered pizza.”

“You ordered us _pizza_ ,” Stiles sighs happily. His eyes sparkle fondly, so starstruck that Derek actually rolls his eyes.

“Only you would take pizza delivery as a declaration.”

“Not just him,” Scott giggles, squeezing Derek from behind. 

“Did you remember to get pineapples for Scott? You totally did, didn’t you.”

“…Maybe.”

It’s Scott who leans up to press the barest caress of a kiss to his face, but he only beats Stiles to it by seconds. “I missed you,” he gushes. 

“Missed you,” Stiles echoes.

 Derek swallows thickly. _I’m home_ , his heart says.

“I missed you too.”

\-----------------------------------------

**END.**


	3. Sterek: I didn’t come looking, but here you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving fic spam: Part 1
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/post/153590166565/i-dont-normally-do-this-like-at-all-how-do)

This… was an awful idea. Perhaps the worst idea Derek has ever had.

No, no, the worst idea Derek has ever had was thinking Kate Argent actually loved him. Or the time he let Peter convince him that Paige needed to be Bitten in order for them to be happy. Or the time–

Derek’s entire life is one bad decision leading to another. As far as this one goes, it’s not going to be a life-destroying one. Or so he hopes.

 _If you are alone on Thanksgiving,_ the sign had read, _Camila’s invites you to join us at 5 PM. Free of charge._

It’s not the first time Derek’s walked past it. It’s not even his fifth time. The little diner is a block away from his New York apartment, right on his route to work everyday. It’s a little family owned place, small and mostly unnoticed by the majority of the neighborhood. Derek’s never even been inside. But everyday for the past week, he’s found himself slowing every time he walks by, his eyes lingering on the handwritten sign posted on the door.

There had been a similar sign up last year too. Derek remembers scoffing at it - at the idea of spending Thanksgiving with complete strangers. He may be alone, but he’s not _that_ lonely.

Except, apparently… he is that lonely.

Which is why Derek finds himself sitting in Camila’s diner along with at least ten other guests at a long table on Thanksgiving day. Except…

The other guests are all introducing themselves and getting familiar. But apart from telling them his name… Derek hasn’t said a word.

It’s not that Derek dislikes people. He used to genuinely _like_ them, before his life got ripped inside out. But ever since the fire he just… he can’t. He can’t handle it anymore. He hasn’t wanted people in his life for a long time. But now… now…

How pathetic is he, that at thirty years old he can’t even hold a conversation with a friendly stranger anymore?

The sting of claws prick his hands, barely hidden underneath the table. Derek is _actually_ finding it hard to keep in control. Over some _bullshit_ social anxiety, how fucking _pathetic–_

A hand claps down on his shoulder, making him jump. “Heeeey there!” A voice greets somewhere over his shoulder. “Who’s ready for some turkey? Because I am. Mind if I cut in here?”

The shock is enough to knock Derek out of his thought spiral. His head whips around to see who managed to sneak up behind him and…

_Oh._

The man sliding into the empty seat next to him makes the words die on Derek’s tongue. He’s beautiful, Derek can only think. And not in a forced Hollywood way, not the bland ken doll fashion that those men try to affect. He’s a few years younger than Derek, tall and deceptively lanky - his broad shoulders filling out the hoodie he’s currently huddling in. His pale cheeks are flushed from the November chill, his lips shiny and pink from wetting them against the wind. And his _eyes_ are the most vibrant shade of amber-brown Derek has ever seen. They sparkle at him, at him, almost flashing Beta gold in the warm light of the restaurant.

The man’s eyes drift over to him, meeting his eyes before darting down to the claws Derek’s barely managing to hide. The rush of panic is soothed an instant later, when the newcomer winks. His mouth curves in a smirk that’s as cheesy as it is sensual. He wriggles elegant long fingers at him, but instead of it being a casual wave his fingers _spark_ for a brief instant.

The coil of anxiety in Derek’s chest eases, just a little. Just enough for him to get the shift back under control. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“No problem, dude. So I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. You ever been here? I kinda just found this place by chance and saw the sign. And, hey, who can say no to free food and equally lonely companionship, right? Not that we’re all lonely or anything, it’s just… you know with the holiday…” his steamrolling fizzles out awkwardly. “Uh. Never mind.”

“No,” Derek says quickly, a little too forcefully. “I’m uh. My name’s Derek. I walk by this place everyday, but I’ve never eaten here.”

“Yeah, me either– I already said that. Shit, uh, sorry.” His blush is endearing, Derek thinks. It goes all the way down his neck when he’s embarrassed.

“Yeah, you did.” There’s a bit of the _old_ Derek in his voice there. The Derek before everything went wrong. The Derek that actually enjoyed talking to people.

“Rude,” Stiles accuses, but he doesn’t seem too offended. In fact, his vivid eyes spark with mischievous light. “Aren’t you supposed to be polite to your dinner guests?”

“You’re not _my_ dinner guest.”

“Semantics, man.”

“Would you rather me be polite and simpering?” Struck by inspiration or _insanity_ , Derek gives the man a theatrical bat of his eyelashes. It actually gets a laugh out of him, which… Stiles’ laugh is sharp and full. It makes Derek’s heart flutter in his chest.

Maybe he’s still got it after all.

“Nah, I’d rather have entertaining. It’s what I’m missing back home, you know? Family poking fun at each other. Trying to keep my dad out of the junk food. My  stepbrother chasing us all out of the kitchen. Wooden spoon and everything, it’s hilarious. My stepmom loves trying to sneak the food out while he’s not looking.” Stiles sighs wearily, propping his elbow on the table. “Instead my flight got cancelled and I’m stuck here. You?”

“Yeah uh…” Derek quickly averts his eyes. HIs bravery is withering fast. “It’s just… my two sisters and my uncle. We don’t really do Thanksgiving anymore.” There’s so much left unsaid in that one statement. So much tragedy that Derek doesn’t even want to touch. Not now, especially not when he was finally starting to feel comfortable again.

“Oh,” Stiles murmurs. “No, I get it. Sorry, man.” Derek expects them to fall into awkward silence. But after a moment Stiles clears his throat and asks, “So, hey, do you watch Game of Thrones?”

And just like that things are redirected. Stiles is… enthralling to watch. To speak to. He easily weaves his way in and out of conversation, engaging with a complete stranger with an ease that Derek envies. He’s not particularly graceful about it, sure. Stiles stumbles around topics, sometimes talking in complete circles. It’s baffling, but it’s _fascinating_ as well. Talking with Stiles makes everything else seem… less. Being surrounded by strangers doesn’t seem as terrifying now.

Before he knows it, dinner has been served and eaten. Derek has learned that Stiles is a Star Wars fan, doing his Masters at NYU, and that he lives in what he fondly calls a leaky shoebox campus apartment with his cat. And Derek wants to know _more._ He wants to know _Stiles._

It’s been a long time since Derek has wanted to know anyone.

So after dinner when they find themselves huddling outside the diner, Derek finally manages to find his bravery. “My apartment is a block that way,” he says.

His words make Stiles freeze, and Derek regrets it immediately. Stupid. _Stupid_ , how utterly creepy was that?

“Not–” he hastens to explain. “I’m not trying to assume. I just…” He sighs. “I’d like to hang out more.”

 _‘I don’t want to be alone anymore,’_ he thinks desperately. _‘I’m so tired of being alone.’_

“Hang out? Just to hang out?” Stiles drawls. His eyes wander down Derek’s form, a move that would usually make Derek’s skin crawl. But on Stiles it looks a little comical.

And more than a little endearing. Derek ducks his head, smothering a smile. “For a start, maybe,” he admits. “I… have all the Star Wars movies.”

Stiles gasps. “Now I _know_ you’re trying to seduce me. Inviting me over for Star Wars.” He hooks his arm through Derek’s before he can even think to be worried about his answer. “Lead the way.”

This time Derek can’t hide his smile. He doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ arm shakes in his. Nervous. He understands that completely. “Hey,” he says softly. “If I’m out of line, stop me.” He leans in, dipping his head just enough to brush his lips over Stiles’.

And Stiles doesn’t stop him.

It’s chaste. It’s sweet. This close Stiles smells like sweet woodsmoke and the forest. Of warmth and nerves and _interest._

“I think you saved my Thanksgiving,” he whispers when they part.

“I think you saved mine too,” Stiles agrees.

\-----------------------------------------

**END.**


	4. Sciles: (Souffle) To say I love you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving fic spam: part 2
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/post/153633639970/its-still-sciles-day-somewhere-in-the-world)

“You got this,” Kira tells him, her dark eyes warm and earnest. “Just be honest and invite him to dinner.”

“Yeah,” Scott says on a heavy sigh. “I got this. I’ve totally got this.”

“Don’t let him be an asshole about it,” Liam adds in what he thinks is a helpful manner. Mason grimaces apologetically at his shoulder.

“It’s not like he’s going to say no,” Malia grumbles next to them. Lydia elbows her in the side. “Uh. Yeah. Go get him, Scott,” she tries again, her smile brittle and polite.

Eh… it’s good enough. Scott will take encouragement where he can find it. “Thanks.” He takes a deep breath, and wanders off down the hall.

Stiles is digging around in his locker, just as he always is after lunch. He expects Scott to just come up and start talking to him, Scott supposes. Because that’s what they always do. That’s what they’ve basically done since elementary school, when it was classroom cubbies instead of lockers. But today Scott’s mind is a terrifying blank as he walks over to his best friend. His palms are sweaty against the straps of his bag.

Because today, Scott is finally going to make a move. He’s going to invite Stiles to Thanksgiving dinner. Romantically.

As his boyfriend.

 _‘You can do it, Scotty,’_ he tells himself. The voice actually sounds more like Stiles, which says a whole lot about Scott in general.

“H-Hey, Stiles, so…”

Stiles stops rummaging through his books, and leans back to stare at Scott seriously. “Did someone die?”

“What? No–”

“Did something else show up in Beacon Hills? Did _Theo_ crawl back out of the abyss? Because I swear to god, Scotty, I will straight up murder him this time–”

“No! No, it’s not anything like that.” Scott winces. “No, I just uh, I just wanted…” He can hear the Pack hissing at him from down the hall, urging him on. “I… just wanted to ask if you’d like to come to Thanksgiving. With me and my mom.”

There’s a beat of silence where both Scott and the Pack hold their collective breaths. Stiles’ frown is even deeper. He’s going to say no. Shit, he’s going to–

“Dude, of _course_ I’m coming over for Thanksgiving,” Stiles laughs. “Me and Dad come over every year, remember?”

If possible, Scott’s heart sinks lower. “U-Uh. Well… well yeah. But you always come over late. If you wanted, you could… come… earlier?”

“Really? Aw, thanks man. You want us to bring anything? Pie? You can’t say no to pie on Thanksgiving.”

“That’d be… great.”

He hears the distinct sound of someone in the Pack - probably Malia - facepalming. Scott tries desperately not to show his embarrassment as Stiles starts in on the assignment in Ms. Flemming’s math class.

Well… time for plan B.

Except plan B goes just about as well as plan A did. Plan B goes into effect two days later, when he shows up with a box of homemade cookies and leaves them on Stiles’ desk before class. It’s not a heart-shaped box or anything so painfully cheesy, but it does come with a folded note resting neatly on top of it that reads: _This year I’m thankful for you. Love, Scott._

It’s obvious. There’s no way Stiles won’t understand.

And yet… he doesn’t. He comes rushing into class, sees the box and the note and the cookies and… after a truly terrifying moment of silence, turns to Scott with a blinding smile. “Awww, thanks, bro! You didn’t have to make me cookies.

Scott manages a smile and a weak excuse. “We were testing out a recipe for Thursday?” And barely keeps himself from banging his head on the desk.

Plan C goes no better, in the end. For a moment, Scott has hope, because Stiles and his dad arrive and Stiles takes one look at the McCall kitchen and gasps. “Is that… are you making Grandma Delgado’s chocolate souffle?”

Scott wipes his hands on a dish towel, his face already beginning to heat. “Yeah.”

“The same chocolate souffle that she said you were supposed to make for your future wife?”

It’d be future husband in this case. But… yes, that’s exactly what Scott’s doing. This is his last resort for a declaration, for at least a _lead in_ so he can tell Stiles that he _loves him_ \- that he’s always loved him, in one form or another, and that now he wants to try a romantic relationship with him. He’s not even trying to be subtle about it anymore. Save for just grabbing the boy and _kissing him,_ Scott can’t think of any other way to get Stiles to understand.

Instead, Stiles looks aghast. “You shouldn’t be making it for _us_. Scott. _Scotty_ , have you given up on love?”

“What?”

“You _have._ Oh man. No, look, you can’t, okay? I know you and Kira didn’t work out, but if anyone has to believe in the power of love, or whatever, Scotty, it’s you.” Scott can hear their parents laughing quietly in the other room, hear the Sheriff murmuring apologies to him for his son’s complete and utter obliviousness.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott pleads, cutting off the boy’s continuing rant. His voice comes out desperate, absolutely frustrated with the love of his life even as he’s enchanted by it. He says _Stiles_ like it’s a loaded gun in his hands, and it is. Because they’ve said I love you in so many ways before now. They’ve said it in _you’re Pack_ and _if you go, you’ll have to take me with you_ and _we’ll figure something out._ But they’ve never done this - taken this step before and Scott… Scott can’t take that. “I’m not making abuela’s souffle for all of us. I’m making it _for you_.”

And finally, _finally,_ Stiles seems to understand. His mouth drops open, the confusion in his face becoming something soft, even awed. “You… really?” he breathes.

Scott beckons him closer, his heart pounding when Stiles doesn’t even hesitate to step right up into his space. Scott ducks his head, smiling bashfully. “Really. I’ve been… do you want to make it with me?”

 _I love you_ , his heart sings. He takes Stiles hand in his, squeezing gently and revelling in the little hitched gasp Stiles makes.

“Yes,” Stiles answers.

It sounds just like _I love you._

(They completely fail at making his grandmother’s souffle. His mother reminds them that they have until the engagement to get it right.)

\-----------------------------------------

**END.**


	5. Scerek: One to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving fic spam: part 3 (fake dating revenge edition)
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/post/153840069870/heres-the-last-of-these-thanksgiving-ficlets-and)

Rafael McCall shifts uncomfortably in the armchair - _Melissa’s armchair_ \- that he’s commandeered.

 _‘This is the best Thanksgiving ever,’_ Scott thinks with truly unholy glee.

“So you’re Scott’s… boyfriend.”

Derek leans back into the couch, throwing an arm over the back of it behind Scott like he’s done it a thousand times. He _hasn’t_ , in fact he’s never done it before, _ever_ , but you’d never tell that by the casual, faintly smug grin on his face. “That’s me.” Scott truly envies the way Derek can speak in a tone so simultaneously polite and menacing.

“I… I didn’t know you were gay, son.” There’s a distinct, gut-squirming discomfort in his father’s tone. “You always had girlfriends. That Argent girl and… your girlfriend from junior year. Uh, Kita?”

“ _Kira_ ,” Scott corrects. “And I’m not. Gay, I mean. I’m bisexual, and so is Derek.”

Rafael looks faintly ill.

From the kitchen, Scott’s keen ears can easily pick up his mother’s muffled laughter.

Best Thanksgiving _ever._

Scott had never expected Derek to agree to this so readily - hell, he’d never expected Derek to agree at _all._ When he’d come to the Pack with his idea to… well, saying “ruin his father’s Thanksgiving” sounds a lot more mean than what Scott actually intended with this. But there’s something implicitly rude about his dad inviting himself to Thanksgiving in the spirit of “reconnecting,” so Scott can’t be blamed for wanting payback. When he’d voiced his idea to everyone, he’d expected Stiles, certainly. Probably Isaac and maybe Boyd.

“If he thinks he can just walk right back into our lives as if nothing happened,” Scott had told them, “he’s wrong. Who wants to help me make him work for it?”

Erica had suggested Derek - the “older man,” the “bad boy,” the “felon.”

 _‘The ridiculously handsome, leather-wearing softie that can throw sass at a moment’s notice and has an ass that won’t quit,’_ Scott mentally added at the time.

What he hadn’t counted on was Derek nodding along with Erica and saying, “Sure, I’ll do it. So how did you romantically declare your intentions, huh?”

And now… here they are. On Scott’s living room sofa. Curled comfortably together as if they do this everyday.

Scott _wishes_ they did this everyday.

“And how old are you… Derek, right?”

“Twenty-four, sir.”

If Scott imagines hard enough, he can actually see the steam coming out of his father’s ears. _Perfect_. “Is that so,” Rafael grunts. “How’d you two meet?”

Scott anticipates Derek going through their manufactured love story, maybe. It’s a rather simple one: that they met because he’s Cora’s older brother and after a lot of pining and friendly meddling, Scott worked up the courage to ask him out on a date. But what Derek says is: “Scott accused me of murder when he was sixteen. Twice.”

He nearly inhales his drink. “I did _not!_ ” he coughs. “That was Stiles!” The side-eyed glance Derek gives him is enough to make him rethink his words. “Uh… well, okay, I might have done that.”

“You totally did that,” Derek agrees. Scott nudges him reproachfully, ignoring the way Derek’s smile makes his heart flutter. “No convictions, of course,” he adds to Scott’s father. “But for some reason he just kept coming around.”

“Of course…” his dad’s voice is growing more and more brittle with every answer.

But Derek makes no indication that he hears the threat brewing, or that he cares. He flashes a smirk. “It was annoying at first. But then it was kind of cute.”

Oh no.

Oh no, this _jerk._ This adorable, conniving _jerk_ , he’s purposefully making this as _embarrassing as possible._

“ _Cute,_ ” his father chokes on the word. “At sixteen.”

“No, the sixteen-year-old was annoying. It wasn’t cute until… what, the end of your junior year?” He’s terrifyingly good at this act, Scott decides. There’s not a blip in his heart rate. He even makes the blushing look genuine. “And then I tried to ignore it. I didn’t want to be creepy.”

It’s said so lightly, like Derek is trying to make a joke, but something in that last statement just sticks into Scott’s brain. He watches for the slightest twitch in Derek’s expression, mentally cataloguing everything he knows of Derek’s struggles in the past with that one seemingly flippant sentence - there’s a touch of truth there, Scott realizes. Exactly _how much_ of the truth, he doesn’t dare think on. But…

He swoops in, heart in his throat, and presses a quick kiss to Derek’s mouth. They’d agreed to chaste kisses beforehand, no need to go overboard with the whole ruse. So Scott isn’t ashamed of not warning Derek first, especially not when the other man leans into the kiss with only the slightest hesitation.

He pointedly doesn’t think about how soft Derek’s lips are. If he does, he’s going to kiss Derek again and never stop.

“You weren’t creepy. You know… after I stopped thinking you were a serial killer or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Derek snorts, but his smile is fond.

Scott pats his knee, and moves to stand. “I’m gonna go see if Mom needs help with dinner. You two can… chat. Have fun, okay?”

He slides past them both towards the doorway, and is just out of the room when he hears Derek ask: “So you like baseball?”

He makes it all the way to the kitchen before he breaks. All he has to do is share a wide-eyed look with his mother and they burst into breathless giggles. “Shhh,” Melissa hisses through her laughter. “S-Shhh, shh! He’ll hear.” It takes them a few minutes to get back under control. The stilted conversation coming from the living room doesn’t help. “You sure he’ll be alright out there?” Melissa asks when the laughter has finally subsided.

“Who?” Scott teases. “Dad or Derek?” He threatens to fall into a fit of giggles all over again, but manages to stop himself. “Derek’ll be fine. He’s playing along really well.”

“Oh, very well. You two looked pretty comfortable out there,” his mother observes.

“I–” Scott flushes. “Well, y’know.”

“You sure this wasn’t an excuse for you two to get all nice and _cuddly_?”

There’s a sputter from the living room, a wet cough as Derek chokes on his drink.

“ _Mom_!” Scott hisses.

“Right, sorry,” his mother concedes, not looking sorry at all. “Silly me.”

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Dinner is awkward and spectacular on all accounts. They manage to make everything look natural, like Derek hanging out with Scott and Melissa is something that happens all the time. (It’s not exactly hard when Derek is over for dinner at least once a week when Scott is home between semesters, or when he brings Melissa dinner during her shift sometimes when Scott is away.) Scott’s sure he nearly ruins the whole charade, though, when his dad tries to ask what Derek does for a living. Hearing that his “boyfriend” doesn’t have a “real job” but is wealthy enough to buy up and flip entire buildings nearly makes the man’s head explodes.

It’s the most wonderful thing that Scott has ever witnessed. A true masterpiece. Scott’s going to cherish the memory of his father’s face as Derek offered to give him _real estate advice_ forever.

They’re cleaning up after dinner when Rafael pulls him aside. He can’t say he hasn’t been expecting it.

“What’s up?” he asks as his dad leads him out onto the porch. “You taking off?”

“In a minute, yeah. But I wanted to talk to you first.”

Right, sure, what else is new? Scott shrugs. “Okay, shoot.”

He patiently lets the man stew over his next words, crossing his arms. “I know I don’t have much right to tell you who not to date,” Rafael begins.

Scott barely holds back a snort. “You’re right, you don’t.”

“But you’ve got to stop seeing that man,” he steamrolls on. “That man is trouble waiting to happen, already trouble if him actually being arrested is anything to go by.”

“Arrested but never convicted,” Scott says blandly. “Innocent.”

“Oh please, that asshole has probably never been innocent a day in his life. Scott, you’re smarter than this. You know this guy is nothing but bad news.”

Scott had expected some pushback from his father tonight. That had been the entire point of this little ruse - to make his father uncomfortable and indignant.

He just didn’t anticipate how _angry_ it would make him.

“You don’t know him,” Scott spits. “You have no idea what kind of person Derek is. He’s a _good man,_ Dad. And he deserves a chance just like anyone else. He deserves to be _loved_ just like anyone else. You don’t get to decide that. He does. _I_ do. _I love him_ , and I’m the only one that gets to decide that!” When the words trail off, Scott’s breathing a little heavier. His heart pounds against his ribs, his throat tight.

It’s enough to make Rafael back down. “I don’t want to fight,” he attempts to soothe, raising his hands in a show of peace. “I just wanted to warn you.” He’s already stepping back down the front steps. Not just verbally retreating, but physically. Running. Just like always.

“Well, warning heard. But not accepted,” Scott informs bitterly.

“Alright. I think I’ve worn out my welcome.” The particularly spiteful part of Scott wants to tell him that he did that a long time ago, but Scott manages to keep his mouth shut. “Goodbye, Scott.”

“Bye, Dad.”

He watches Rafael all but slink away with his tail between his legs, for all that his dad makes it look like a casual stroll back to his car. He watches the entire departure with hands clenched around the porch railings, even as his father is starting to drive away down the street.

But arms sliding around him from behind cause him to jump, nearly out of his skin.

“Sorry,” Derek murmurs, right in his ear. He’s so close, pressed all along Scott’s back. There’s no way he can miss the full-body shiver that races through him. And Scott would be worried about that if he wasn’t so focused on the _feel_ of Derek wrapped around him, smelling of warmth and home. Or on the fact that Derek’s face is pressed into the crook of the shoulder and Scott can feel every breath on his skin.

“It’s okay,” he yelps. His voice cracks on the words, and he quickly clears his throat. “Uh, dad’s gone, so you don’t have to…” He tries to move, but only gasps when Derek’s arms tighten around him. “…Derek?”

“You weren’t lying.”

“Uh?”

“Earlier. What you said. Your heart didn’t…” If Scott were braver he’d say Derek _snuggles_ into him then. But no, that’s not what this is. Right? “Say it again?”

“Say what? That uh, that you’re a good man? Because you know you are–”

“ _Scott_. Please.”

Yeah, Scott should have known this was coming. “I…” He sighs. “I said… that I love you.”

If he fears Derek’s reaction, it’s gone in the next moment because the man relaxes against Scott, pressing his weight into him and sighing in what sounds like relief. Scott can hear Derek’s racing heart as easily as if it were his own. “I love you too,” Derek says.

Scott leans back into him, feeling as if the world has been pulled out from under his feet. “ _Really_?” he nearly squeaks. It must come out so disbelieving, so ecstatic, because Derek lets out a breathless laugh against his shoulder. “Hey. Hey,” Scott urges, grasping Derek’s hand where it’s clenched in his shirt and nudging him until Derek lifts his head. His eyes sparkle in the darkness, soft and sweet. It takes Scott’s breath away. “I love you,” he repeats.

Derek’s smile is so tender, so warm that Scott can’t help but lean into his space again. He can’t help but turn in his arms just enough to kiss him, deeper than their staged kiss in the living room. Their kiss lingers, neither of them wanting to let go of this moment.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” Derek admits, breathing the words against his lips.

“You can now,” Scott says, and laughs when Derek gathers him close again, as if he plans to do just that.

Best Thanksgiving _ever._

_ \----------------------------------------- _

**END.**


	6. Scerek: That's not how you use mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Scerek Holiday Special, theme: Mistletoe.
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/post/154623658235/i-really-need-to-stop-waiting-until-the-last)

It’s a week before Christmas, and Scott McCall is having an asthma attack.

An _asthma attack._ Of all things. He would laugh if it didn’t feel like his lungs were trying to squeeze themselves up through his throat. One of the only good things about becoming a werewolf had been that this wouldn’t happen anymore. And yet _here Scott is,_ having a goddamned asthma attack.

As of this morning the most Scott had been concerned with was whether or not hiding fake mistletoe around Derek’s loft would be a step over the romantic line into _cheesy and lame._ It’s their first Christmas together and Scott wants it to be _perfect and free of supernatural crisis._

But instead they get sirens. Not cute Disney-esque sirens. No, instead they get “we’re going to nest in Beacon Lake and sing to lure men out into the Preserve where they’ll die from exposure” sirens.

He lets out a wet cough, the taste of something foul on his lips. Scott reaches blindly up to wipe his mouth, trying to concentrate on his breathing.

His hand comes away smeared with black.

Great.

“Scott?” Deaton’s voice flickers into his awareness. “Alright, Scott, I want you to try and take deep breaths. I know that’s difficult right now, but this will help get the mistletoe out of your lungs. Don’t try to swallow any of the discharge. Spit it into this pan.” A mask is carefully fitted over his face, but Deaton is kind enough to let him work through another bout of coughing before he fastens it on securely. Almost immediately Scott can taste the chemical mist flowing through it. It’s almost exactly like the nebulizers he’d be fitted with at the hospital when he had particularly bad asthma attacks as a kid.

Even as a werewolf, apparently, the more things change the more they stay the same.

Whatever Deaton has loaded into the nebulizer starts going to work within seconds, at least letting him focus on something other than how it feels like he’s drowning on dry land. Stiles is the only other member of the Pack in Deaton’s exam room with him. A few others he can hear in the waiting room - Mason, Liam, and Lydia’s voices filter through the walls. The rest, he assumes, are still clearing out the siren den.

“Yeah, yeah, he’ll be okay. He’s an idiot, but he’ll be okay,” Stiles is saying. Scott squints at him, chest bubbling around another brewing cough. His best friend is on the phone, he realizes. On the phone with–

The voice on the other end registers far later than it should. Scott’s eyes go wide, and his emphatic “NO” gets lost as his lungs spasm. He ends up curing into a fetal position and cough until his feels like it’s on fire. Something foul fills his mouth, making him fight not to choke.

Stiles is at his side in seconds, pinning his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. A bowl is shoved under Scott’s nose, Stiles’ other hand tugging the mask away from his face. “Spit,” he orders.

Scott does, and watches as a truly disgusting gob of black phlegm goes splattering into the dish.

Ugh.

Stiles holds the bowl there until the coughing subsides again. “He’s giving me the ‘please don’t tell my boyfriend I did something stupid’ look.”

Scott glares mutinously at him. He is _not._

His best friend grins at him. “Too late,” he tells Scott gleefully, before focusing back on the phone. “Uh-huh. _Yeah,_ man, he’s fine as long as he takes his medicine like a good boy. …Uh-huh. Yeah, sure, whatever. See ya.” He hangs up, tossing the phone gently onto the exam table so he can get Scott’s mask back into place. “Well, Scotty boy, your wolfy knight in shining armor will be here any second to scold and cuddle you or whatever it is he does. Probably both.”

Scott lets out a raspy huff at him. It takes a few tries before he can pant the words: “You… _suck._ ”

“Love you too, Scott. Now rest up, okay?”

Stiles retreats to the door, but doesn’t leave entirely - presumably so someone can still keep an eye on Scott. Which is fine, really. Scott tries to relax and breathe as deep as his struggling lungs will let him. The attack has all but exhausted him anyway, so it’s easy to drift a little in the dim light and the relative quiet.

He gets lost in focusing  on his breathing, so it seems like no time at all before the service bell at the clinic’s door rings. There are low voices in the waiting room, and gentle footsteps, and then Stiles says: “He’s all yours.”

The exam room door shuts.

Scott’s eyes flutter open as footsteps approach, and finds Derek standing in front of him. Scott smiles. “Hi,” he mumbles through the mask. But Derek has that frown on his face, the one that’s simultaneously disgruntled and worried and just a little bit tortured - like he’s subtly trying to make sure Scott is still there. He sighs, and it gets caught on a small hiccuping cough. “I’m in trouble, huh?”

Derek holds his glare for another half a second, before he takes a long breath and lowers himself into the seat next to Scott. “Big trouble,” he agrees. But Derek still lets Scott rest his head on his shoulder, so maybe not too much trouble. The older man tucks an arm around Scott’s back, pulling him closer, and turning his face into Scott’s hair.

“You okay?” Derek asks him softly.

Scott shrugs one shoulder and tries very hard not to make his breathing sound labored. “Not too bad. I’ve had worse asthma attacks.”

He doesn’t so much see his boyfriend’s disapproving scowl as he does feel it. “What in the hell made you think it was a good idea to run _towards_ that siren before Lydia threw the mistletoe?”

Oh boy. Scott really wishes he could go back to this morning, when they were curled in Derek’s bed and it was soft and warm and siren-free and Scott could _breathe properly._ “Uh,” he croaks, “She wasn’t going to slow down? She was charging us.”

“The _mistletoe_ would have slowed her down, Scott.”

“But not–” His lungs spasm, threatening another fit, and he ruthlessly suppresses it. Now is not the time. “Not before she would’ve gotten hold of one of us!” he argues. His voice wheezes around the words. “I’m the Alpha, I’m supposed to protect–”

And that’s the moment he breaks off into another bout of coughing. Damnit.

Derek holds him through it, even holding up the bowl without flinching while his lungs spew up noxious black discharge. There’s comforting kisses being pressed into his hair; a hand rubbing his back as he shakes.

 _Best_ boyfriend.

“As someone who used to pull that ‘I’m the Alpha’ thing,” Derek says when Scott goes quiet again, slumping into his chest, “that’s complete bullshit.”

“Derek…” Scott whines.

“No. You’re the Alpha and the strongest, but you’re also the one of us who’s most vulnerable to airborne toxins. Especially when you run straight into a fight when Lydia throws a mistletoe smoke bomb.”

Scott barely stops himself from squirming under that gently scolding tone. “If you were there, you would’ve done the same thing,” he grumbles. He peers up at his boyfriend, utterly unsurprised when Derek actually looks ready to argue with him. “You so would. And then _you’d_ be sitting here gagging on this–” he moves the mask out of the way, and spits a tiny bit of phlegm into the pan, “–shit.

But Derek doesn’t seem to be too impressed by his reasoning. He leans back so Scott can see him better. So Scott doesn’t miss the sad eyes that Derek is currently giving him. Shit. “I just want you to be safe,” his boyfriend says.

“Don’t guilt trip me,” Scott pleads, putting an extra pathetic whine in his voice. It’s not hard to do when it’s muffled by the mask and wheezy. “You can’t guilt trip me when I’m injured.”

“ _Watch me_ , Scott.”

He’s infuriating. And Scott loves him.

“You’re mean,” Scott groans with absolutely no heat. “I was going to spare you my lame attempt at Christmas romance, but not when you’re being mean.”

“Oh…? And what horrible fate were you saving me from, huh?”

“I was gonna hang mistletoe up in your apartment and make you kiss me under it.”

“Make me, huh.” A small smile tugs at Derek’s lips. Something in Scott’s chest, that isn’t the lingering effect of mistletoe, loosens.

“Yeah. I thought it might be too cheesy, so I wasn’t going to go through with it. But now? I’m going to hang it up right over the bed. 100% the lamest attempt at Christmas romance you’ve ever seen.”

Derek hums, and leans in. A kiss, sweet and warm, is pressed to his forehead. “If you promise not to inhale it, I’ll kiss you under the mistletoe as many times as you want.”

What a jerk.

“Deal,” Scott sighs happily.

\-----------------------------------------

**END.**


End file.
